<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Sam's Everything by lily rose (annabeth)</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556389">Sam's Everything</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose'>lily rose (annabeth)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>piss!verse 2.0 [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Explicit Sexual Content, Incest, Incest Kink, M/M, Sam is sixteen, Sibling Incest, Underage - Freeform, Watersports, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, this means pissing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:41:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556389</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/lily%20rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is Sam's everything.</p><p>(Final part!)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>piss!verse 2.0 [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787341</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sam's Everything</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The conclusion of the piss!verse 2.0! Hope you enjoyed the ride, and thanks for making it a successful one. ♥</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Together, Sam and Dean drag the soiled mattress out of the room and down the stairs, and replace it with one from down the hall. They examine the old one, hands on their hips, trying to decide what to do with it.</p><p>	"We could burn it," Dean says doubtfully. But it leers up at them accusingly, as if to say, <i>what of it?</i></p><p>	"Dad will notice." Sam scuffs his sneaker in the dirt; they're in the backyard, thankfully hidden by some large evergreen trees. "I think."</p><p>	"Dad'll never notice," Dean says, rubbing two fingers against the pocket of his jeans. "By the time he gets back, we'll have dealt with it. A pile of ash isn't something he'll notice, even if he comes back here—which we know he doesn't."</p><p>	Sam puts one hand on his hip, half-turning to Dean; his brother is still staring down at the pissed-on mattress. Sam wants to ask what he's thinking—is he embarrassed, or self-conscious, about that performance on a sunny afternoon? Things are beautiful, Sam has to admit it to himself. The sky is an inverted bowl of blue, studded with dandelion-fluff. Birds sing as if the glory of the afternoon belongs only to them, to the music caught and released from their throats.</p><p>	But at their feet is evidence of another kind of beauty. Even though the grass is green and lush, even though Dean's sun-gilded eyelashes are long enough to see from where Sam's standing, there's nothing in the world that can compare to the beauty that came and alighted on Dean when he was coming, body straining, strung with golden glimmers of sunshine, mouth parted pink and open. When his skin had flushed like a rosy glow under candlelight. When his cock had stopped streaming golden and had flared with white. Sam pictures it again in his mind, and he can feel his youth like a yoke around his neck. Most people would probably wish for the days of their youth, the time when their recovery period was minutes at most, or their eyes were clear again of cataracts.</p><p>	Sam wishes to be older. He knows it's not unusual for teenagers to want to hurry into adulthood like the dog that dashes after a squirrel, speed speed speed… but Sam wants to touch Dean again. He wants to kiss those eyelids, to breathe against Dean's mouth, the knowledge that both of them are wrapped up in the same moment. That their breath comingles and turns and twists like a soft summer breeze. Sam inhales, and the scent of lilacs and honeysuckle fills his nose. He scrapes his fingernail over the metal grommet of the pocket of his jeans, and finally, he raises his eyes to Dean's face.</p><p>	Dean is watching him. His tongue is running back and forth over his bottom lip, slow and sure. Does he know what he's doing to Sam? Is he trying to seduce Sam—something he's already done, simply by being himself? Because Dean is hot leather, and gun metal, and smooth whiskey. He's Sam's sweat in the morning when he awakens from a dream about kissing Dean. He's Sam's morning arousal, from dreaming of taking his cock into Sam's mouth.</p><p>Dean is Sam's everything.</p><p>	He's a sunrise after a difficult night. He's the sunset after an aced exam. But more than that—more than being a pretty flower blooming or the starshine—he's Sam's brother.</p><p>	It ought to be wrong. It ought to feel like the stickiness of gum on your shoe when you first step on it. It ought to be the darkness of a tornado bearing down. But Sam can't turn away, can't look away. If it's a tornado—this lust, this love—Sam wants to be borne away on the wind.</p><p>	Because the first time Dean's lips touched his, it was like he'd finally been born. Finally been released from the womb, his breath stuttering out of him, his body shuddering as if it had been wrought anew. And now…</p><p>	"Sammy?" Dean's still watching him, head slightly cocked. He reaches up and rubs his lower lip, and Sam doesn't even think he's aware of it—what that little touch does to Sam. "We doin' this, or what?"</p><p>	Sam's body is a single throb of arousal, a pulse from his temples to his toes. There's a stronger throb in his belly, a pulse in his bladder. Dean's gold-leather-gun beauty, his scent whispering on the breeze, his voice like the rasp of a knife on a leather strop, his <i>everything</i>—it brings Sam pleasure so acute he thinks he might die of it. He almost <i>wants</i> to, to simply expire from the glory of loving Dean, from the way it felt to touch him, to slip inside him.</p><p>	"Burn it," Sam whispers, his own voice hoarse. Hoarse like leaning against a tree, and scratching your back on the bark. Hoarse, like a low-throated dog. Sam is <i>gone</i>. He's freewheeling in the sky, he's swimming to the ocean, he's a droplet of dew on a golden buttercup. He simply <i>is</i>. But that feeling in his bladder, that cup within his body that's nearly overflowing, it brings him something more than an urge to relieve it, or to release it. It brings him joy so acute he can't feel the tips of his fingers anymore.</p><p>	Dean flashes him a smile, and it's cocky and self-assured, the smile of a boy who became a man when Sam wasn't watching. He's known Dean his whole life, and woken every morning to that face. How was he to know that this would happen, could happen? That losing his virginity to Dean—the slick velvet that had engulfed him when he'd thrust within—could have opened his eyes so thoroughly? Could have made him see that his brother has changed? And yet, nothing has changed intrinsically. Dean is an adult now, but everything that makes him himself—the smoky voice from too many cigarettes, the scent of whiskey and gun oil, the flat, delineated abs, the soul wrapped within the whole package that overspills and wreathes his body—that's all the same. Larger than life, yet small enough now to hold within his arms. Dean hasn't gotten smaller—but Sam's gotten bigger.</p><p>	Sam simply watches as Dean pours lighter fluid on the mattress, then lights it up with his Bic. Smoke and gravedirt, scents that have clung to Dean after many a hunt, that had fragranced his hair even after a shower, when he'd climb into bed beside Sam.</p><p>	The mattress flares and begins to burn, and burns steadily as they stand, lost in their thoughts. Sam wonders if Dean is feeling guilty, if he regrets the act that brought them here; not the pissing itself, but the allowing Sam to enter him, to make the two of them as one even for only a few moments.</p><p>	And as it burns, Sam's body begins to mimic that fiery conflagration: he begins to burn all over for Dean, to touch him, to run his mouth over muscle and bone, to taste Dean and imagine he can taste the flavor of Dean's blood; his bladder throbs steadily in time with the leaping flames.</p><p>	"Dean." He moves closer to his brother; there's too much space between them now. Sam doesn't know if it's literal physical distance he can't stand, or if there's some sort of metaphysical distance between them that he can't bear. "I need to piss, Dean."</p><p>He reaches for him—Dean turns, slow like honey gone thick and golden under sunlight, and Sam's hand brushes his shoulder. He adjusts his trajectory until his palm comes up against the curve of Dean's cheek, flat to that whiskered skin. Sam's whole body ignites. He flares up like a torch in the night, and before he knows what he's doing, he's pushing Dean down with one hand. Dean crumples gracefully to the ground, and Sam catches the back of his skull before it hits the hard-packed earth. He lowers Dean's head.</p><p>	"Take me?" he asks, running his thumb over the apple of Dean's cheekbone. Dean's color is high, his breath rapid, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "Take all of what I wanna give you?"</p><p>	"Sammy, yes. Yes." Dean's writhing on the grass now, a shadow falling across his body from the sinking sun and the leaping flames. The mattress is still burning, but that knowledge is falling away, it's gone hazy and distant and Sam can see only Dean lying there on the grass. Dean's hard beneath the denim of his fly. He's all Sam's. All his.</p><p>	Sam kneels down, and unbuckles and unzips and pulls at fabric. Dean lifts his hips and soon, oh so achingly soon, Dean's clothes are strewn about, and he's bare to the elements, the sun, the sky, the whisper-kiss of the soft air. Sam can only imagine how it must feel, to be bared to Sam's gaze, that slinky beauty that fills Sam's mouth.</p><p>	"Dean…" He skates his palm down Dean's chest, over his belly. Dean's cock is out and proud, thick and waving gently above his belly. Sam drops a kiss on the crown of it, then gets back to his feet. "D'you wanna kneel, or take this lying down?"</p><p>	Dean grins at the double entendre and spreads his arms wide, as if he's making a snow angel in summer. He splays his legs apart. He becomes a living sculpture of muscle and bone, a piece of art for Sam's eyes alone.</p><p>	"Any way you want me."</p><p>	"Just lie there then, just like that." Sam is going to paint him like the piece of art he is. He's going to write his name on Dean's heart even as he writes poetry on his skin with his piss. Sam pulls himself out of his jeans. "You're mine, Dean. Mine forever."</p><p>	"Yours." Dean's eyes are dark with emotion, his lashes like lace brushing his cheeks as he blinks. His body is perfection incarnate, the scars only serving to enhance him. And with that word—<i>yours</i>—Sam loses his mind.</p><p>	He simply… lets go. It's a sullen flow at first, a lazy trickle. But it becomes stronger, more robust, and plashes against Dean's skin; it covers him in liquid sunshine. Sam's head tips back, and for a moment all he can see is bright blue, with a hidden edge of gold at the corner of his eye. Then he recollects himself, and wrenches his gaze back to Dean.</p><p>	His body is going empty, the fullness of his bladder going slowly slack. He paints Dean with the art of his own body, his piss like ink marking Dean indelibly as his.</p><p>	When he finishes, the ground is gleaming and wet, and Dean's lying amidst it glowing, sun catching and refracting in the pools and eddies of piss adorning Dean's body. Dean's breathing hard, and there's white streaks among the thinner, acrid-smelling liquid.</p><p>	Sam wraps a hand around his cock, and with expert twists of his wrist, he brings himself to the only possible conclusion: a soaring orgasm that feels as if he's suddenly an eagle in the sky, wheeling about through the air with a freedom Sam can only understand in moments like these. His come mixes with Dean's and Sam falls to his knees and yanks Dean's head towards him.</p><p>	As they kiss, the flames from the mattress scorch the sky, and Sam loses track of everything but Dean's lips, and the scent of Dean's piss-marked, sweaty with orgasm, skin. The flames subside to sparks, and still they kiss.</p><p>	And Sam understands this covenant they're making. This kiss, and that touch, the arch of Dean's eyebrow or his foot. It all mingles together in Sam's mind, and he swallows Dean's breath. They could kiss forever—until the whole world burns and falls away—and it would never be enough. It could never be enough, and it will, in some ways, never end.</p><p>	The covenant signed and sealed in their own fluids and the taste of the inside of Dean's mouth. Sam inhales and cradles Dean's jaw.</p><p>	They will share this, forever. And if they live to be a hundred, Dean will still be his.</p><p>	Sam's everything.</p><p>END</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>